Sans Peur et Sans Reproche
by AMarguerite
Summary: Enjolras struggles to find the same camaraderie with Grantaire as he has with the rest of the Amis, despite Grantaire's best attempts to the contrary.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Credit where credit's due—the description of Grantaire comes from a tumblr post by legles, and "le chevalier sans peur et sans reproche," is the nickname of the chevalier de Bayard (about whom you shall hear more anon). Also, this started as a response to a kink meme and then got pretty far away from what was requested. As a general note, in French, one says, 'Chapeau!' to congratulate someone. And many thanks to Pip for all their help with characterization and plotting!

* * *

Enjolras first met Courfeyrac at a student protest about free speech. Enjolras had been hunting all over Paris for something. It was a 'something' he found in the words, engraved in fire, of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, in that sudden realization of, 'Yes, this is my purpose, this is why I am here.'

In boarding school Combeferre had smiled and called it the soul's longing for the infinite. Enjolras only knew the feel of the call, the rightness of the words, of the situation, of the feeling of at once being consumed and released. He joined in the protest with his usual attitude of smiling reserve, searching, searching, always searching for that sudden flame that illuminated his life and made it brighter, clearer, like the prisoners in Plato's cave stumbling out of a shadow world of puppet plays on the wall and into the sunlight.

It seemed to Enjolras, at first, that Courfeyrac was engraved in fire against the mob of students, against the gray Parisian sky. Enjolras didn't know it was Courfeyrac, of course; he turned a corner and saw Courfeyrac chasing his hat, his auburn hair, with its reddish undertones, gleaming in the dying light. Courfeyrac was laughing and calling out some witticism that Enjolras could not hear, his black coat unbuttoned, his burgundy waistcoat gleaming against it. Enjolras picked up Courfeyrac's top hat before it could be trampled by the rush of protesters making their way to the Hotel de Ville.

"_Chapeau_ to you," said Courfeyrac, with his warm, ready smile. Courfeyrac was handsome when he smiled and he knew it. But though there was vanity in it, it was not exactly self-absorption, but a sort of confidence, a readiness to please and be pleased, a knowledge that he could make other people happy with very little effort.

"Or rather to you," said Enjolras. He has a dry sense of humor and liked the pun. Enjolras handed the top hat back to the other student. "I take it that you are a law student?"

"Did the hat give it away?" asked Courfeyrac, forlornly. "In general I try to dress well enough to throw everyone off the scent. I'm Courfeyrac, by the by."

Their hands touched, briefly, as Courfeyrac took his hat again. His hand was warm. Enjolras had the sudden impulse to clasp it. However, Courfeyrac took back his hat and popped it on his head at the precise angle between rakish and fashionable.

"Enjolras."

"Enjolras." Courfeyrac had a hint of a Southern twang and pronounced Enjolras's name in the sing-song patois of Provence, dragging out 'Enjolras' as if it were a particularly fine passage in a song.

"Aix?" asked Enjolras.

Courfeyrac laughed. "However did you guess? I thought the Jesuits beat the accent out of me. Where are you from?"

"Marseilles."

"Ah, a fellow Southerner!" It appeared that nothing could have delighted Courfeyrac more; he grinned and seemed inclined to sling an arm around Enjolras's shoulders. But they had only just met—instead Courfeyrac pulled Enjolras into a group of students half singing out slogans of liberty and equality, talking all the while about a group that called themselves the _Courgurade d'Aix_, of protests, of republicanism, of the silk workers strikes in Lyons. Courfeyrac's inflections were a warm beakerful of the South, full of the rhythms of peasant dances, bright with the Provencal sunlight, as light and yet as penetrating as the Mistral. Enjolras was unspeakably drawn to that warmth. He felt at home for the first time in Paris. And he ended up putting an arm about Courfeyrac's shoulders, as they stood in front of the Hotel de Ville.

Here was his purpose.

It surprised Enjolras how easily he slid into a friendship with Courfeyrac. But Courfeyrac was just that sort of a person—all warmth, all radiance, all eager good-nature. Once you were his friend, you were friends for life and he would deliberately go out of his way to make you happy.

It was different from the intellectual camaraderie Enjolras had always had with Combeferre. With Combeferre Enjolras could sit down and say something random about Socrates or Saint-Just and have an hours-long conversation that thoughtfully tread through all ancient and modern philosophy and science. Conversations with Courfeyrac were farther from the cold radiance of the sublime and the intellectual and, though Courfeyrac was still very intelligent, there was a half-teasing tone, a warmth and an excitement that made each conversation more like a dance, or a friendly fencing match.

Combeferre liked to point out that after spending too much time with Courfeyrac, who delighted in falling into a sing-song Provencal accent at the slightest provocation, Enjolras's own voice would gain a sort of hymn like cadence. Enjolras was obscurely pleased with this. He liked that idea that he was gaining a little of Courfeyrac's warmth through repeated exposure. Generally too much exposure to the Southern sun left Enjolras painfully sunburnt, but with Courfeyrac there was all the warmth and light without the danger. All was easy.

One day, when the nucleus of their group was beginning to form, Courfeyrac pinned Charles X's charter to the dart board. "Here's a game for you Enjolras—hit a clause and we'll debate its worthiness. Jehan, Bahorel, care to join in? Combeferre isn't allowed to play because of his improbably good aim."

Jehan and Bahorel hesitated as they were struggling through an untranslated poem of Byron's. Neither of them spoke English, but they had a dictionary and the requisite Romantic imagination to fill in any gaps in their collective knowledge. But Bahorel liked to throw sharp objects (or any object at all, really) and soon persuaded Jehan. Combeferre was studying the bones of the hand and though he liked to be around the others, he would not be drawn into their games—or at least, he would not until he had memorized the names of twenty-seven different bones. Enjolras liked Courfeyrac for giving Combeferre an excuse not to play that doubled as a compliment.

Enjolras took a dart from Courfeyrac. "I warn you, Combeferre taught me how to shoot."

"I shall be at a decided disadvantage if you can aim a dart as well as Combeferre aims a carbine." Courfeyrac melodramatically pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. "You ought to have warned me before I challenged you to a game!"

He was not really offended; all this teasing was merely Courfeyrac's way of playing. He was always careful with his playmates, often testing limits, but never trespassing over them. It was no fun at all to Courfeyrac if the other person wasn't enjoying it too.

But, as it turned out, aiming darts was considerably trickier than aiming a carbine. Enjolras faithfully followed all of Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Bahorel's suggestions (while ignoring Jehan's ruminations on poetic vision)—he took off his coat, unwound his cravat, stood sideways (and then stood directly in front of the board when that didn't work), tried to throw with his left hand, reverted to his right and smiled more than he had in weeks. They ended up debating whatever Courfeyrac hit and, since he was the best darts player, he made sure to hit the clauses Enjolras had mentioned that he would like to discuss.

As Bahorel and Jehan had formed Team Romanticism, as they dubbed themselves, Enjolras found himself leaning on Courfeyrac as they watched Bahorel and Jehan debate what to hit. Courfeyrac was sitting, half slumped in his chair, in a way that made it look physically impossible to get up; Enjolras was leaning half on the back of the chair and half on Courfeyrac's shoulders. He could smell the lavender Courfeyrac packed in his linens to preserve them from moths. Enjolras thought, here, again, was his purpose, as they fired up each other's enthusiasm, and Courfeyrac was the bright heart of the flame.

Enjolras thought that had never enjoyed himself more, surrounded by the noise and activity of his friends as they all seemed to aim their wit at each other, flinging points almost carelessly at their target, enjoying the clever display of rhetoric almost as much as the political debate. And this—this was all due to Courfeyrac, with his infectious good nature, his warmth, his verve, his diabolic beauty of the spirit. Enjolras's heart was too full for exuberance, and, at any rate, any overflow of good feeling always turned into heartfelt speeches on the ideal, but he was deeply and sincerely happy.

"Oh come now, you do but dally," complained Courfeyrac. "If you really are so desperate to hit clause three, I'll do it next round." He glanced up at Enjolras, his green eyes alight with merriment. "Do you think they'll hit it? Or should I barge in and demand another turn?"

"We must obey the rules of our temporary social contract," agreed Enjolras, with a smile. "We can put it to a vote, Bahorel."

"I can hit it," interrupted a gravely voice.

The five of them turned, their high spirits temporarily halted by the entrance of a newcomer. Jehan was almost exasperated and muttered, in an undertone to Combeferre, that they had chosen darts in this cramped corner over the more popular billiards room so as _not _to be barged in upon by strangers.

But it was no stranger. Enjolras recognized the red nose, the face full of burst capillaries, the unibrow across the jutting forehead, the eyes that managed to be sunken and puffy all at once, the stooped posture, the alcohol and paint-splattered clothes, the greasy hair, the uneven teeth, the smallpox scars pitting his skin—it was Grantaire.

Enjolras felt an odd stirring of discomfort. It had obscurely entered and the warm camaraderie he had been sharing with Courfeyrac—the unwound cravats, the laughter, the feeling of basking in the Provencal sun—began to fade. Enjolras mentally chided himself for letting Grantaire's sudden appearance on the scene so impact him. Grantaire was a citizen of France, like anyone else. He had the same potential. There was goodness in him… somewhere.

Enjolras had, in fact, hoped that Grantaire would stay in Marseilles, and not come to Paris to study painting under Gros as he always threatened to do. It was an unworthy wish, one Enjolras deeply regretted that he had, but Enjolras could not help glancing at Combeferre and fervently wishing that their interactions with Grantaire had ended with the _bac. _Grantaire had a habit of staring at Enjolras and dropping occasional compliments that made Enjolras feel uncomfortable.

"I thought it might be you," said Grantaire, with his hideous smile. "There is no one like you in all of Paris, Enjolras. I saw your hair from outside when I was looking in the window, and I said to myself, well, Apollo is visiting us mortals, or at last I have seen where Enjolras hides himself in Paris. Or perhaps it has now become the fashion, once again, to paint our best marble statues with gold. "

Though Combeferre had lectured everyone in their dormitory that Plato's equation of beauty with goodness was a logical fallacy, Enjolras did not think Combeferre would blame him for recoiling from the alcohol fumes emanating from Grantaire. Besides which, Grantaire's compliments made Enjolras feel unsettled; Enjolras had never seen his body as something other than a vessel to be shaped and trained to better live out his ideals and he disliked all the attention Grantaire lavished upon it, despite Enjolras's active discouragement. Enjolras went to pick up his coat, and said, lightly, "Ah. Grantaire. I had thought you were still in Marseilles, at school."

"I left it a year ago—I am in Gros's atelier."

"I am glad your family managed to arrange it after all," said Combeferre, and then he, Grantaire and Enjolras chatted politely about professors Combeferre and Enjolras had admired and respected and which Grantaire had mocked (he had spent most of the lectures Enjolras had most valued drawing caricatures of the professors). Courfeyrac at once asked Grantaire if he would like to join the game.

Grantaire was happy enough to join Bahorel and Jehan's team, happy enough to mock and destroy, but he could not build. Even when Combeferre put aside his books and joined Courfeyrac and Enjolras, Grantaire couldn't help but mock their solutions, their ideals, as well as everything else. Bahorel and Jehan didn't seem to mind; they steered the conversation back into mockery and appreciated Grantaire's skill with caricature. Courfeyrac seemed to like Grantaire's puns, and even Combeferre liked practicing his aim against Grantaire. However, it was clear that the game had fundamentally changed.

The others did not seem to mind.

Enjolras did, and felt fourteen again, put upon because the Jesuits had assigned Grantaire to his and Combeferre's orderly dormitory as some bizarre punishment for their hidden republicanism. It was not a kind thought, nor a virtuous one, and Enjolras, coldly displeased with himself, became more silent, more reserved. He could not feel at ease, either, with Grantaire's almost rude stares and his attempts at what Enjolras assumed was meant to be flirtation.

When Combeferre and Enjolras walked back to their shared quarters that evening, Combeferre understood, without Enjolras having to say it, how petty Enjolras felt he was being.

"I thought he would have grown out of that schoolboy infatuation," Combeferre said, lightly, gently, as if testing a wound. "Was it very unpleasant for you?"

"More so than usual," Enjolras said. "Grantaire drinks now—I had hoped after what happened in school…."

Combeferre could not think of anything to say and so took off his glasses to polish them with his handkerchief. "There is a mind under all that wreckage," he said, eventually. "The world has been very cruel to him, it is not his fault if he drinks a little."

Enjolras nodded. That was true. If only Grantaire applied it instead of seeing only images to be painted or adored, looked beneath the surface to see the racing mind, the beating heart—and, Enjolras thought, with a return to a pettiness in himself that he thoroughly disliked—if only Grantaire would stop staring at him as if trying to do a nude study while Enjolras still had on all his clothes. Enjolras remained withdrawn until Courfeyrac unexpectedly visited that evening and once again teased Enjolras out of his defenses with a bright conversation that bounced from ancient Rome to the first French republic, to Rousseau to Voltaire to the best fencing schools in Paris. Irresistibly drawn by this warm enthusiasm Enjolras forgot his uneasiness and felt comfortable in his skin once again.


	2. Chapter 2

"He seems to like you."

This was said very casually by Courfeyrac, as they leaned against a tree in the Luxembourg, with the exhausted Combeferre half-using Enjolras's folded coat and half-using Enjolras's left leg as a pillow. The three of them had been discussing their friends, their debates, their projects, and Courfeyrac had not taken long to mention Grantaire, who now followed Enjolras around like a very vocal shadow. Combeferre had talked a bit about Grantaire's studies under Gros before his thoughts began to jumble together and he'd yawned widely. Courfeyrac had told him to take a nap before he fell asleep in his dissection lab that afternoon and woke up in someone's small intestine.

Enjolras wanted to fidget but was not in the habit of doing so. He instead looked at the rare, spring sunlight filtering greenly through the canopy of trees. "I know."

Courfeyrac folded an arm behind his head. "Ah. I thought it would come as a surprise—you are very patient with him, but occasionally you seem puzzled by our grand R. You do realize… _how _he likes you?"

"The Jesuits instructed me in all areas of life they found of interest."

Courfeyrac winced. "I hope your Jesuits weren't too bad. You're a very charismatic fellow, Enjolras, and, if you will forgive me for saying so, when it clearly makes you uncomfortable, an almost angelically handsome one. There must have been quiet, vicious little fights among the younger boys to earn one of your smiles."

"There were. I never asked for it. I disliked it intensely."

Courfeyrac studied the dappled pattern of sunlight above them. "And I suppose Grantaire was the worst offenders in those contests. The way he looks at you sometimes makes _me _uncomfortable, and I tell you, that doesn't happen often." After a moment, Courfeyrac said, "But there must be more to it than that, or you would have sent him running with a glare, like you did to that grisette at the the Ermitage, on the Boulevard du Maine. Granted, she did sit down on your lap when you weren't expecting it..."

Enjolras shifted against the tree. His shoulders had tensed at the memory, which, of course, brought up others like it- and a particularly unpleasant one with Grantaire, full of unpleasant shadows that crept in and half ruined the afternoon sunlight, the relaxing warmth of Combeferre on one side and Courfeyrac on the other.

"You permit a great deal from your friends, but you dislike presumption from strangers," said Courfeyrac, after a moment. "Have I got the right of it?"

"Yes."

"And where does Grantaire fall in this spectrum for you?"

"It is not a pleasant story."

Courfeyrac shifted so that he could rest his auburn head against Enjolras's shoulder. The weight and warmth of it seemed to dissolve some of the tension between Enjolras's shoulder blades. "You don't have to tell it if it upsets you. I always prod, you must tell me if I inadvertently prod at a bruise. It's only idle curiosity on my part. But," and this with a glance upwards, at Enjolras, "if a little bloodletting will heal the wound better, I can provide the appropriate receptacle. Whatever it's called. Combeferre would know but this looks like the first time he's slept in a week."

"He's having trouble with the human skeleton." Enjolras rested his cheek on the top of Courfeyrac's head, tentatively, delicately, like a bird alighting on a new perch. Theirs was a tactile friendship, it was easier to get Courfeyrac's attention with a particular touch on the wrist, reserved for their use alone, than to be forever shouting his name, along with the dozens of others who wanted Courfeyrac to join them. But still, this was new. There was a curious intimacy in acknowledging all this openly—Enjolras had talked only in thinly veiled metaphors to Combeferre about his interactions with Grantaire at school.

"Combeferre and I first met at school—he was the _moniteur _of our dormitory. Our headmaster liked to appoint students taking their _bac _as the heads of dormitories, instead of forcing teachers to live there. The general principle behind it was to teach the most promising of the elder boys responsibility, to improve scores on the _bac _by allowing the teachers to focus exclusively on their subjects, and to relieve the headmaster of some of his disciplinary duties, so he could spend more time at dinner parties with the local parents. Combeferre and I were very close friends, I was his natural replacement when he passed the _bac _and went on to the medical school in Paris. Grantaire was one of the boys under my supervision." The story sounded stilted to Enjolras's own ears, but he told it as truthfully as he could.

"There is someone like Grantaire in every school, I think. He had been artistic and a little too obvious in his... admiration." Courfeyrac gestured that he understood. "It- it always made me uncomfortable. Not only was Grantaire one of the boys under my charge but he was..."

"Ugly?" supplied Courfeyrac.

"Even before some of the other students 'accidentally' broke his nose in the courtyard playing at the knights Bayard and Negus. That first happened under another _moniteur's _watch. By the time Combeferre was head of the dormitory and intervened, Grantaire's nose had been "accidentally" broken three times."

"Not exactly _sans reproche,_" observed Courfeyrac.

"Not exactly _sans peur _either," Enjolras observed, dryly. Enjolras knew how fear closed one down, shut off one's capacity to hope. Enjolras had grown up running freely through his father's shipyards in Marseilles. It had delighted all the seamen to see Monsieur Enjolras's son, with his mother's golden curls and delicate frame, scampering up and down the rigging, learning how to make knots and sitting and solemnly listening to the Chinese sailors tell him stories of their homeland in Cantonese. Most of the French sailors liked to teach Enjolras _savate _and try to frighten him with tales of the uncaring sea, its savagery, its sublime power, but Enjolras, never having experienced the horrors of a hurricane, or a desperate fight in Marseilles alleyway, would not be frightened. He merely observed how some of the men shut down, closed off, turned immobile as their fear crowded out the possibility of any other reaction. It had startled him at the time to see men capable of lifting enormous chests of silks and Chinese porcelains one-handed while on rolling ships suddenly freeze when retelling stories of tidal waves. This he managed to easily describe to Courfeyrac, but he hesitated when trying to describe the fear he saw in Grantaire.

"What a fitting childhood," exclaimed Courfeyrac, when it became clear Enjolras did not entirely know how to proceed. "I couldn't have imagined a better one for you. Do you still know _savate_?"

"Yes—and, as a result, I ended all the beatings Grantaire received—or, rather, all the beatings I saw." Enjolras briefly touched Courfeyrac's sun-warmed hair for reassurance. "I should have kept a better eye on Grantaire, tried to drive out that same paralyzing fear. But it had been my first chance at implementing my egalitarian principles. I was at great pains to treat everyone equally and to not spend more time with one student more than the others. And…."

Courfeyrac shifted so he could glance up at Enjolras. "And, I suppose, Grantaire made any tetes-a-tetes exceedingly awkward. Did he ever try anything?"

"He confined himself to staring—leering sometimes—and once or twice he tried to put a hand on my knee. I think once he was trying to…."

"Make you aware of his availability?"

Enjolras nodded. "I ignored it. I had to study for the _bac._"

"Really? It's not required for the law school, only courses in rhetoric or philosophy at a collège royal or collège communal."

"My father wished for me to take it." Enjolras lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I had no moral objection to it, and I've always been good at tasks that required sustained and concentrated attention. I devoted less attention to Grantaire's daily torments than was, perhaps, necessary."

"You can't still blame yourself for that," said Courfeyrac, softly.

"Not for that," replied Enjolras.

Courfeyrac did not prod. He shifted so that Enjolras could instead comfortably drape an arm around Courfeyrac's middle, instead of letting his arm stay pinioned between them. "About a week before the _bac _Grantaire had a broken rib. I decided to end bullying once and for all, and took him to the headmaster. At one point the headmaster turned to me to ask about my course of study, whether or not I hoped for a place at one of the Grand Ecoles, whether or not my father's expected ship from China would be arriving soon in port, and, most importantly-" this with a smile and a glance at Courfeyrac, whom Enjolras knew would enjoy the joke, "-whether or not the headmaster might have some of the oolong tea in its hull. While we were occupied, Grantaire stole several bottles of the port the headmaster used during communion as the blood of the new covenant." Enjolras paused. "Grantaire drank them all in one sitting that night, while hiding in the lavatory."

"Jesus Christ," said Courfeyrac. "No pun intended, this is—was—is? My apologies Enjolras, this is more serious than I expected for _Grantaire, _of all people."

"Puns can be serious."

After a moment, Courfeyrac said, "You needn't go on if It makes you uncomfortable but what happened? Did you find Grantaire?"

"No, some of the first year students did. They were terrified that Grantaire was dying, as he was pale and cold to the touch after he had vomited on the floor and collapsed. I had seen one or two of his father's sailors drink themselves to death, I knew what had happened as soon as one of the first-years stumbled over the bottles. I carried Grantaire to the infirmary—I ought to have caught it before it came to such a dangerous pass. Grantaire didn't wake up until sun rise, and even then took ten minutes to realize he wasn't dead. I almost didn't hear him say that no one else would have taken him to the infirmary. I was sixteen and exhausted, with a constitution unsuited to lying…."

"And, unfortunately, Grantaire was right," said Courfeyrac.

Enjolras couldn't contradict him. "I said what my father said to sailors in the same situation: 'It would have very much upset me if something had happened to you. You are part of my dorm.' My father usually said "fleet" instead. And then, 'If you ever have a problem I hope you will come to me for help. You are cared for.'"

They were quiet for a few moments; Enjolras watched the sparrows hopping along the gravel paths and let his fingers tangle with Courfeyrac's, as their hands rested on Courfeyrac's silken waistcoat.

"Did that improve matters?" Courfeyrac asked.

"No. Grantaire then thought—or I suppose he thought that I wanted what I'd carefully avoided since I was twelve, when Maurice de Montmorency tried to drag me into a closet during free time. That was all Grantaire could understand—not the friendship which winds its roots deep into the soul and grows with every breath, but the sordid attempts of sodomy playing at affection that had been the only moments of kindness he had known in boarding school. And I was busy with my examinations thereafter. I never got the chance to explain what I had meant by "cared for," as in paying for medical bills, sorting out financial tangles—the sort of thing my father did—the sort of kindness that comes at a distance to preserve the dignity of both benefactor and recipient. Or, better yet, the pure and disinterested friendship I found with Combeferre. All I could do was ignore his overtures until school ended."

"That must be exceedingly awkward for you," said Courfeyrac, after a moment. "My heart bleeds for Grantaire, poor fellow, no one deserves the sort of treatment he experienced, but I've often been on the receiving end of persistent but unrequited _tendres. _I know how unpleasant it is. People always expect you to reciprocate out of politeness. And in such a situation one has to tread so delicately…."

Enjolras said only, "Perhaps it will lead him to something better, to something he can believe in, a truth for which he can live and die."

Courfeyrac seemed a little more skeptical, but, then again, he did not know Grantaire. Enjolras did not flatter himself, he did not particularly know Grantaire either, but he _knew _of the potential living in every man.

Courfeyrac shifted against Enjolras's shoulder. "Well, _The Symposium _would have it that we love that which we lack—and poor Grantaire, one look at him while one is in a bad mood and one is moved to comparisons with Gorgons."

"All this flattery when you are the handsomest of our group?" asked Enjolras, not entirely insincerely.

Courfeyrac had a red-head's complexion even though his hair had darkened almost to brown. His blush was sudden and noticeable. Enjolras rather liked it, though he was surprised at the effect he had on Courfeyrac, of all people, who floated in flirtation as a duck in water. Courfeyrac was almost clumsy in his recovery. "Ah… yes. Well. I'll introduce Grantaire to Bossuet, a wonderful fellow, always optimistic despite his bad luck. Or rather, I'll introduce Grantaire to Bossuet and Joly. To talk to one is to talk to the other. Bossuet never approaches cynicism, but dwells in irony. Perhaps with the right friends the awkwardness will dissipate."

Enjolras admitted to the wish but not to the expectation that Courfeyrac was right.


End file.
